Castle Kingside

By afternoon, one could clearly see the city walls from the ship. And what a city it was. Was, but no more.

Majestic outer walls brandished the scars of battle. Sections stood shattered, crumbling, or missing altogether, revealing stone buildings clustered beyond. The adjoining gatehouse fared no better. Its narrow entrance collapsed onto a carapaced devil, whose size rivaled that of the ship Dimitry rode. Blue blood dribbled from the tortoise-like heathen’s neck and onto the head lying at its feet. The beast seemed to have been decapitated during last night’s battle.

Outside the city, a makeshift barricade comprising dead heathens ran along the river, the surrounding ground blue and barren. Nearby workers disassembled fresh and bleeding stone corpses limb by limb and tossed them atop the lengthy pile. Ox-driven carts dragged unbutchered heathens across grassy fields to replenish ‘construction materials’.

The hairs of Dimitry’s arms stood on end. Frozen, his eyes could not detach from the horrific sight. Was this life without the Church? Were the weapons that Malten produced, the ones that Saphiria held in such high esteem, not enough to fend off the invaders? He hoped last night’s chaos would prove an exception rather than the rule.

Dimitry glanced at the burly, tan-skinned captain beside him. “Is it always like this here?”

“Naw.” Gold-trimmed hat in hand, he too watched the city in silence. “Last time I been to Malten was three months ago. Shit wasn’t this bad. Not at all.”

“What changed?”

“See that?” The captain pointed to the side of the river opposite Malten. “Last time, there weren’t no corrupted creatures coming from there. Now, they’re coming from the western waters and the northern lands. This place don’t have long.”

Although Dimitry couldn’t recall every detail of the map he saw in Estoria, he remembered seeing other cities north of Malten. “Does that mean that the heathens changed their target?”

“Corrupted creatures ain’t that smart. My money’s on Einheart and Volmer loosening their patrols. Resources ain't infinite, ya know? Eight years is a long time to live without the Church.”

Dimitry’s brows furrowed. Eight years? The timing of the Church’s retreat and Saphiria’s enslavement coincided.

“By the way.”

“Yeah?”

With a meaty hand, the captain pointed at the ship’s forecastle—the raised front of the deck beneath which the crew slept. His gaze fixated on a girl with raven black hair, whose boots squirmed more restlessly by the second. “Can ya tell the lady to send the payment to Malten’s Blue Compass branch within two days? Normally I’d tell her myself, but…”

Dimitry sympathized with the captain. A mere glance at Saphiria pierced his heart. “I’ll handle it.”

“Thanks. Also, a bit of advice. I suggest you three finish your pilgrimage and get home as soon as possible. It ain’t safe here.” The captain nodded, tightened his hat around his head, and stomped away to bark orders at his crew.

Get home? Dimitry was home. He had nowhere else to go. Although the Gestalt Empire underwent its share of tribulations, it remained the only country free from the Church’s influence. Religious zealots frightened Dimitry more than stone giants. One could even consider monstrous invaders a positive indicator of a city’s health.

Ignacius told him that abundant magic use attracted heathens. To cast spells, one required vol—an expensive commodity. The many stone corpses surrounding Malten’s walls suggested the city prospered more than any besieged city should. How many pure pellets did the inhabitants burn through to defend themselves last night? A thousand? Two? Any settlement that could afford the expense without help from the Church fared well enough.

Or so Dimitry told himself.

“Boy.”

He turned around.

Although Ignacius rested a hand on Dimitry’s shoulder, he watched Saphiria with a worried frown. “I owe you kids a lot. Especially her. Even if it’s just to chat, come visit me at Vogel’s Enchantments.”

Dimitry immediately recognized the name. It belonged to the store Ignacius’ family ran. “Appreciate the invite. I’ll keep it in mind.”

“Hey, geezer!” a sharp whisper escaped Dimitry’s dress. “How about me? Can I come too?”

“Well… I prefer if you didn’t. My daughter always got squeamish around faeries.”

“Your daughter sucks.”

Ignacius huffed a fatigued chuckle. “Maybe if you stay hidden.”

Precious’ wings flapped excitedly against Dimitry’s cheek.

The boat berthed at a ramshackle harbor. Planks lying uneven and layered as if to plug massive gaps, the dock’s construction didn’t have the quality expected from a city of craftsmen. Hasty repairs undid what was once a prosperous port.

Saphiria didn’t wait for the crew to moor the ship before she vaulted over the railings and marched towards the city.

If Dimitry dreaded learning about the city’s conditions, how did she feel? The collapsing gray walls defended her family’s home. Her home.

“My boy, I don’t suggest letting little miss go off alone.” Ignacius sighed. “I fear she might learn an unpleasant truth.”

———————————————————————————————————

Dimitry followed Saphiria through a city of stone buildings with rusted metal frames. Every wall even, every iron pillar uniform, they flanked a paved road from both sides. Enchanted lamps hung from posts, illuminating streets with intricate designs painstakingly engraved by some accomplished stone carver. Malten was indeed a city of craftsmen.

Craftsmen and beggars.

Clothes crumpled and torn, masses lay alongside buildings or huddled around bonfires in alleys. A man with dirt-smeared cheeks watched Dimitry's leather bag with hungry eyes. Street urchins prowled in groups, rushing between homes to beg for meal scraps or chasing wild dogs with sticks and stones like cavemen hunting buffalo across a stone prairie.

Like many others, blisters covered the side of a sleeping woman’s face. The unmuddied patches of her skin ghost white, she lay motionless despite raucous neighbors. A thin neck and arms despite a swollen abdomen suggested she was pregnant.

Eager to offer the woman loose change to support her child, Dimitry leaned in to make his presence known.

The irises of her wide-open eyes remained dilated and fixed regardless of the shadow creeping across her face.

She wasn't sleeping.

She was dead.

Grief flushed through Dimitry, and he coughed as if to dislodge the globus sensation growing thicker and tighter inside his throat. What a cruel way to die. He didn't show his sorrow. If not for himself, then to appear confident for the girl at his side.

Hand pressed to her mouth, Saphiria's head twisted side to side, every tainted sight sapping vigor from her already unsteady gait. Her pace grew sluggish until she stopped altogether. Saphiria looked down.

At her feet curled a dismembered dog with a fleshless ribcage. Shattered bones remained where the legs once connected, and on the head, pink flesh interspersed patches of black fur. Skull fragments, entrails, and chunks of boiled brain filled the extruded sections of an excellently sculpted brick road.

"Why..." Saphiria said with a shaky voice. "W-who would?"

Incapable of watching a girl’s world crumble around her, Dimitry averted his eyes. Everyone knew who the culprits were. Although the sight was one he preferred to do without, Dimitry couldn't fault a starving populace for acts of desperation. Hardship was an equalizer that forced even him to sink to depravity. Who was he to scorn people just trying to eat?

But Dimitry didn't vocalize his thoughts. Instead, he wrapped an arm around Saphiria's shoulders. "Come on. You're almost home."

A while passed before Saphiria tore herself away from the motionless dog, her gaze downcast as they walked. Although she watched her staggering feet, her eyes doubtless saw only a slaughtered animal as they navigated the city.

Gently nudging the girl forward with one arm, Dimitry used his free hand to pinch his nostrils shut. Like traversing a gag-inducing minefield, he had to step around mounds of feces every ten strides. Large piles that belonged to horses, medium-sized foothills like those of pigs, and small ones attributable to humans. The fecal stench, along with that of urine and decay, tainted the air.

Normally, putrid smells alone couldn't shake Dimitry, but the source did. Civilians brandishing massive blisters, peeling purple skin, cyanotic fingertips, limbs black like charcoal, pus-filled wounds, inflamed eyes secreting excessive discharge. Some symptoms held familiarity, others were . Overcrowding and unsanitary living conditions turned Malten into the perfect breeding ground for pathogens. The rampant disease made sense. However, based on what Dimitry saw, this was no simple ailment.

The appearance of a new plague was more than a possibility.

Desperate to identify the bacteria or virus responsible, Dimitry studied the bleeding purple blisters on a man's arm, but he averted his gaze upon meeting his gaze.

The man’s eyes pleaded for help, and his palm hovered midair.

Dimitry considered giving him a few bronze coins, but swiftly abandoned the haphazard thought. That man did not beg alone. Dozens of open palms stretched closer, expecting more alms than he could accommodate. A starving mob would swarm Dimitry if he gave money to a single homeless person. He turned his attention to rapidly enclosing walls instead.

They cocooned a segregated district from which a castle's elaborate towers rose to pierce gloomy skies. Two guards flanked an iron-reinforced gatehouse, each wielding a long halberd.

One guard kicked away a beggar who tried to peak at the castle inside. His gaze flicked towards Dimitry. "Coldust nationals?"

Saphiria tried to speak, but her words emerged as feeble whimpers.

The second guard heaved an impatient breath.

While Saphiria mourned the city she once knew, displaying a demeanor lacking the grace of nobility, Dimitry had to make something up. Anything that could get him and his friend closer to the castle and away from desperate thieves. He examined the many luxurious stores around a spotless pavilion and flashed the three gold gadots remaining from his journey. "We're travelers from Coldust. Just got off the ship. We're looking to do some shopping."

The guards shared a glance.

"Was a ship supposed to come today?" one asked the other.

"Well, they aren't refugees. Speak properly, too."

"Could use the business."

Their halberds uncrossed, granting passage.

Dimitry nudged Saphiria forward, and they stepped onto a wide road.

Surrounding them were massive homes with stained glass windows, stores with elaborate trinkets on display, and wealthy patrons in colorful uniforms and long dresses. At the end of the masterfully carved stone walkway stood a knight and a yellow-robed figure. They guarded the giant, gold-glowing gate leading into the castle.

Unsure if he could bluff his way past them, Dimitry had to rely on the daughter of a duke. He brushed away raven black strands from her face. "Hey. You doing alright?"

"S-sorry." Saphiria wiped her eyes with her sleeve, combed her hair, and straightened her back.

"Better now?"

She nodded.

Dimitry forced a smile and glanced ahead. "Who's that in the yellow robe?"

"A court sorceress. Don't take her lightly."

"Is she that strong?"

"Very," Saphiria said, voice trembling. "Try not to lie unless you must. Court sorceresses are not only strong but cunning as well. I prefer if you left this matter to me."

Dimitry hesitated. Gone for eight years, Saphiria would face difficulty convincing her family and subjects to take her back in. "And you'll be fine?"

"This is not just about me." She inhaled several deep breaths, slowly releasing them through her nose—a technique Dimitry taught her during the voyage to ease her nervous jitters. She strode forward with a confidence befitting her status. "I'll handle this. For the both of us."

Unlike the careless frolicking past the boulevard in her youth, every step closer to those familiar birch gates shook Saphiria, intensifying the quaking of her legs. Although she often comforted Dimitry with promises of a secure position within the castle, now that she approached her home, she wasn’t sure if she could secure one for herself.

The Church had kidnapped her eight years ago, whisking her away in the night. Would her parents and elder brothers disown Saphiria for being too weak to return on her own strength and in a timely manner? What if the Pesce family had been deposed in her absence, marking her as a target for elimination? Could she protect Dimitry if they had to flee?

Pointless musings.

Saphiria shook her head and pulled back her shoulders. Once she conversed with Father, once she reunited with him and relayed her tale, all would be well once more. Like in the tranquil times of her childhood. She shoved every meaningless concern into the recesses of her mind as she arrived at the castle gates.

With red eyes glaring from under a yellow hood, the court sorceress spoke coldly. “You must be lost.”

Although court sorceresses were time-honored war heroes, renowned and few enough in Malten to be counted on the digits of a single hand, Saphiria did not recognize this one. Was she a new appointee? "You will know me as Saphiria, daughter of Ferdinand and Amelie Pesce! I demand an audience with His Grace at his earliest convenience!"

The heavy infantry halberdier lifted the visor of his bascinet to reveal a bewildered scowl. He glanced at the court sorceress to his side.

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Those who impersonate the royal family face a death sentence. You don’t want trouble, woman, do you?”

"Royal family?" Saphiria said. "Speak sense! Now!"

"So a desert-dwelling washrag traversed the peninsula just to mock Her Royal Majesty?" the court sorceress bellowed, grabbing the attention of nearby nobles and merchants. "Ethelbert! Knife!"

The halberdier withdrew a dagger.

With a wrinkled palm, the court sorceress grabbed the hilt. "Display your offensive tongue once more, nomad, so that I may sever it."

Burning rage and impatience within, Saphiria would end this charade immediately. She wiped a clammy hand against her dress and pulled back her sleeve to reveal her most prized possession: the sapphire bracelet father gifted her. Although not a powerful artifact excavated from an ancient dungeon, the accessory’s poison-curing powers held a special interest to mages. All within the Sorceresses Guild knew of it. "I will not repeat myself! Lead me to my father! Immediately!"

The court sorceress's eyes shot open. She dropped onto one knee. "Open the gates at once!"

The halberdier knelt too. "Her Royal Highness has returned at last!"

Ecstatic murmurs erupted from across the boulevard, and metal hinges wailed as the castle gates opened.

The court sorceress lowered her head. "Pardon me, Your Royal Highness. We knew not it was you. If I should sever my own tongue to rectify my disgrace, please give me the word."

"There is no need," Saphiria said. "Instead, tell me your name. Your face is unfamiliar."

"Anelace Rowen, Your Royal Highness."

"Why do you refer to me as Your Royal Highness?"

"I beg your patience. Much has happened in your absence. Allow me to return with someone qualified to speak on Her Royal Majesty's behalf!"

Saphiria frowned. Did Mother crown herself a Queen during the Gestalt Wars? Would that make Father the king? "Be swift. I have little patience.”

The court sorceress marched into the castle and, halfway through the hall, started sprinting.

Dimitry smiled as if to praise Saphiria.

Hairs on end and jitters throughout her body, she suppressed the urge to smile back. Saphiria had to maintain her image. Soon, she would meet with Father. Their struggle would end at last. They would be home.

“I wanna see, I wanna see!”

Although Precious' whispers were quiet, disaster would ensue if her voice leaked past Dimitry's dress. The castle's entrance hall was the worst place to be discovered housing a corrupted creature. Such a mistake could forever tarnish Saphiria's reputation as a noble. Or rather, as royalty. Not once did she tell him she was 'Her Royal Highness', and somehow, she didn't know for herself. What the hell happened while she was gone?

"I’ve never seen the inside of a castle before! I wanna seeee."

Dimitry jabbed his hood with an outstretched pinky.

"Owie."

Keeping them company while they waited for the Queen's representative was the sweet smell of berries wafting from incense sticks and two guards. Their yellow-painted steel armor rattled like empty beer cans with the slightest movement. A blue carpet rolled out from beneath, stretching past a three-way intersection and disappearing into a distant, pitch-black corridor.

A woman emerged. With one hand pulling up the skirt of her dress and the other cradling a book, she approached in a manner befitting a fashionable businesswoman. The string strapped to her glasses—the first pair Dimitry saw in this world—disappeared into her sky blue hair, styled into a formal updo. The woman appeared to be in her late twenties.

She was beautiful.

Were Dimitry still on Earth, her gentle features and sophisticated elegance would have inspired him to ask her out on a date. But now that he was stranded in a crumbling city, romance bore no interest. He wanted information. Would heathens destroy Malten? How did the royal family plan to deal with rampant homelessness and starvation? What would happen to him and Saphiria?

Dimitry verbalized neither question. Not only was he oblivious to his position in society, but overspeaking could inconvenience Saphiria. Silence was his strongest weapon until he learned to navigate his situation.

Stopping a meter away from him, the woman pressed her book to her chest and knelt onto a single knee. "Good afternoon."

Saphiria wore an authoritative expression. "Bertisma? You look young."

"I-I apologize, Your Royal Highness. Bertisma is my mother. This one is Klaire Hofmann. Just as she once did, I now serve as her majesty’s stewardess."

Dimitry considered introducing himself with 'this one', but he figured nobles reserved the phrase for themselves. Saphiria seemed to have left out many details during her 'courtly lessons'. To avoid offending anyone, he offered a standard greeting. “I'm Dimitry Stukov. I’m a surgeon.”

Klaire didn't so much as look at him. Her gaze fixated on Saphiria. "Please allow this one to confirm your identity. How old are you?"

"Twenty as of this summer."

"What did you receive for your ninth birthday?"

"A horse. Her name is Dorothy."

"Could you show me the bracelet you displayed to Madam Anelace earlier?"

Saphiria pulled up her sleeve, revealing a golden band wrapped around her wrist with a sizable sapphire engraved in the middle.

As if absolved of all tension, Klaire exhaled a deep breath, and her shoulders relaxed. "It’s really you, Your Royal Highness! We are saved!"

The two armored guards, or perhaps they were knights, fell to their knees. The gesture conveyed their excitement without a word.

Dimitry's confusion only grew. Although Saphiria had saved his life before, could her skills save an entire city? Or was it a kingdom now?

"Your Royal Highness," Klaire said, her voice crackling with anticipation, "would you please accompany me? Your mother has awaited this day for nearly a decade, as have the rest of your subjects. Now is the perfect time to make your appearance!"

"Where is Mother?"

"She awaits in the royal court! The gentry have assembled to discuss repairs following the Night of Repentance, and your presence will bring much-needed levity to such serious affairs. Yes, the kingdom will sing with your arrival!"

"Let's end this matter swiftly." Saphiria glanced at Dimitry. "There is someone I wish to visit."

It seemed the girl, no, the princess, didn't look forward to a reunion with her mother. Was that why she never mentioned her before?

When Dimitry trailed after them, Klaire glanced back. She wore an uninterested expression. “You will wait here.”

"No," Saphiria said. "He comes with me."

Klaire bowed. "My humblest apologies, Your Royal Highness!"

Despite her newfound status, Saphiria didn't toss aside Dimitry. He silently thanked the girl as he followed her down a long hallway.

Muffling every step was a carpet, its superior make apparent at a glance. Interwoven fractal designs, silver-trimmed edges, and vibrant blue dyes doubtlessly valuable in a world without industrial plants. On all sides, marble pillars held up a domed ceiling bearing elaborate paintings of war and love and religious imagery—an opulent display suitable for any nobleman's home.

And yet, something was missing.

The corridor felt empty.

Further investigation revealed why. Deep furniture dents in the carpet presented at regular intervals along the wall, hinting at decorations once present but no longer. While most dents were small, the size of a plinth base, larger ones must have resulted from cabinets and display stands that had rested there for decades before they vanished.

Dimitry stroked his chin. He thought of only two reasons for the absent furnishings: either Saphiria's home underwent renovations, or her family was desperate for cash. Did her father sell lavish furniture to raise military funds?

The barren castle hinted that Dimitry’s dream of becoming a court surgeon with limitless capital for medical advancement was hopeless. Employment itself, however, wouldn’t be a problem. Illness had spread throughout Malten. Although it pained him to see patients suffer, they offered an opportunity to make an honest living. To give life instead of taking it. To redeem himself.

The future Dimitry yearned for since he escaped Ravenfall.

Like an exuberant middle manager expecting a raise, Klaire’s feet seemed to want to skip forward, performing tiny hops instead. She stopped in front of massive oak double doors and turned around. "Your Royal Highness, are your preparations in order?"

Saphiria waved her hand as if to perish the thought. Although the gesture boasted a regal flair, trembling fingers betrayed her false confidence.

"And you, sir..."

"The name's Dimitry."

"Don't forget your manners when addressing Her Royal Majesty." A grin spreading across her face, Klaire rubbed her hands. "Ready?!"

Legs unsteady like before a medical presentation, Dimitry nodded.

Klaire struggled to open a massive door.

It creaked around the hinge, revealing a clamorous hall full of men in elaborate uniforms, adorning medals and trinkets, alongside women in flowing dresses. Engaged in furious discussion, or perhaps fighting, most shouted or pointed at one another. Atop a raised platform stood a throne. A woman with gray-black hair sat upon its soft cushion, her calculating eyes shifting from argument to argument until her gaze landed upon a girl in a saltwater-stained azure dress.

"Your Royal Majesty!" Klaire strode up the blue carpet. "This is—"

The Queen jumped from her throne. "Saphiria!"

A single name resounded across marble walls and throughout the throne room. Although the Queen's tone wasn't loud or deep, its authority shocked nobles from their conversations, bringing the venue to a standstill.

Silence.

Saphiria knelt onto one knee. "This one has returned."

Dimitry imitated her posture.

A handsome man whose uniform bore golden epaulets flashed him a scornful smile.

Although alarmed, Dimitry ignored the provocation. He arrived in Malten an hour ago; what could he have done to earn anyone’s ire?

"Men kneel with both knees,” Saphiria whispered.

Anxiety prickled Dimitry’s face. What a splendid factoid for Saphiria to leave out of her lessons! A squirming faerie, probably suppressing the urge to laugh at his expense, tickled Dimitry's shoulder as he shuffled to correct his blunder.

“My daughter,” the Queen said, “eight years have come and gone since I have last seen you. You have grown into a beautiful woman.”

“Your words humble me, Mother.”

"But I must ask. Your apparel—why do you dress like a common desert dweller?”

Dimitry furrowed his brow. What kind of mother questioned her daughter—who she had last seen before her teenage years—about her clothing rather than about her health?

"We have traveled through Coldust on our journey," Saphiria said. "There was little opportunity for us to change into formal attire."

"Us? So the one accompanying you is a knight?"

No one spoke.

Was it Dimitry’s turn? He looked up to meet Her Royal Majesty's unflinching crimson eyes. “N-no. My name is Dimitry Stukov. I am a surgeon by trade... Your Royal Majesty.”

“I see.” She looked away, disinterested. "Saphiria, where is your real escort? I expected at the minimum a dozen Zeran knights and priestesses. Surely, they await outside, honored to be in service to an archbishop as outstanding as you.”

Dimitry blinked, processing what he had just heard. Zeran knights? Priestesses? Saphiria—an archbishop?

What the fuck?

Saphiria glanced at him.

He didn't know how to respond.

"A boat had just berthed in the port!" Klaire said. "Diplomats from the Church should be on their way now!"

Cheers sounded from all around.

“The Church has returned to bless our lands at last!” a woman in a flowing gold dress squealed.

“We are saved!” said another.

Her Royal Majesty glanced around the throne room. "Will they arrive soon?"

Saphiria rose from her kneeling posture. Her gaze shifted from the Queen’s throne to the empty one beside it. “Mother, would you humble this one with an answer to a question?”

“Ask as you wish, my blessed daughter.”

"Will Father be joining us? I wish to meet with him."

The room went silent once more.

“Is he out surveying the mines? Overseeing a shipment? And what of my siblings? Are they elsewhere, fulfilling their duties to the kingdom?”

Gloom consumed the jolly atmosphere. Some nobles glanced away to examine the carved marble walls. Others stared at their feet. If everyone had something in common, it was that they avoided looking at Saphiria.

“We must speak in private,” the Queen said. “Come.”